


The Sentimental Fool

by RoryMercury



Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Aaronev's Parenting Skills, Before the Betrayal, Bullying, Character Study, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Dark, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Kid Fic, Murder, Near Death, Original Character(s), Poisoning, Pre-Canon, Sturmvoraus Family Life, Tarvek needs all the hugs, Tarvek's horrible childhood, childhood positive influence, poison resistance training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28024347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoryMercury/pseuds/RoryMercury
Summary: Tarvek must have had a positive, lasting influence from somewhere. The question is, who?(Trigger warnings because this is the Sturmvoraus household / child Tarvek growing up, so expect messy death and very abusive childhoods, and bullying.)Some spoilers for book 2
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	The Sentimental Fool

“You will be a King, my son,” Tarvek’s mother said. “So I will tell you stories you need to know about the greatest King Europa has known.”

Tarvek nodded, trying to look serious, as best as a three year old could manage. He sat in his mother’s lap, pale, chubby hands patting the page with the stylised woodcut of Andronicus Valois and the Muses. Her cheek rested against the top of his head as she read the story to him, about the Shining Coalition, of Sparks who made wonderful creations, all for the King. The weapons were too hard to pronounce, but Tarvek didn’t mind, because he _could_ pronounce the word he liked.

“Muses,” he said, smiling up at his mother, patting the picture. “Muses, Mummy!”

“That’s right, my darling,” she kissed his brow. “And one day they will be yours, my King.”

⚙

Tarvek was hiding. Today it was in the cupboard where the toy clanks normally were. In it with him were the two things he could hold with his two hands: The book about the Storm King, and little Violetta. He was a big boy now, a little man, Mummy said, so he had to protect what was important to him. But his hands were too small to hold on to Mummy as well, and she said it was okay, because she was an adult. They always hid, when the shouting started. Hiding was a Smoke Knight lesson, one of the first they were taught, one even Violetta could do, kind of, but she was two and a half, to Tarvek’s four. He had to be grown up for them both. She was too little to be his Smoke Knight yet.

Violetta burrowed her face into his shoulder and tried to muffle a whimper; she was hungry. He had given her the last of the candied orange peel he’d had in his pocket, even if he was hungry too. Tarvek had to protect Violetta. He shushed her, as quietly as he could.

Tarvek didn’t know how long it had been, but he was relieved when the series of knocks came, the signal for ‘All Shadows Must Come Into The Light,’ that Mummy said meant they were to stop hiding and come out. 

Tarvek slid open the cupboard door and they tumbled out. Mummy walked over, gathered them into her arms. “Well done, my darlings,” she said in a wobbly voice. “Come. Let’s go to the parlour and we’ll have scones and stories, alright? Then I shall play the spinet for you as a reward for good practicing.”

Mummy picked them both up; her arms felt strong around them both. As they walked down the hallway, Tarvek saw Anevka following the Prince. Anevka scowled at them, and turned away.

⚙

Tarvek and Violetta trotted to Mummy’s parlour, Smoke Knight lessons finished for the day. They had been throwing practice knives of weighted wood at targets, run through the obstacle course, done handstands and held up on a pushup until the Smoke Master said they could relax. Tarvek felt a little woozy from the incremental increase in poisons he’d had to take, but he was getting better at concentrating and fighting off the effects. Six years old, Tarvek understood a lot more now, about the world he was in. He knew a bit of why his parents fought, and part of it had to do with him not being ‘strong enough’, so he worked hard so he could be stronger, better, faster, smarter. So one day Mummy could proudly say he was strong, and she wouldn’t have to cry anymore, because he would protect her as her Storm King. But for now, he had an hour with Mummy, for a little tea, a story, and to let her know what his progress was like, before afternoon lessons in maths and languages.

It was Violetta who dragged him to a halt, the sounds of shouting coming through the wall. Even muffled, Tarvek recognised Mummy’s and Anevka’s voices. From the sound of it, they’d been shouting for a while. Worried, he pushed his glasses up his nose and put his eye to the keyhole. Anevka had sounded more and more like the Prince these days, and it was worrying. Some days she was fine, and other times, she seemed so full of _rage_ . Some days Anevka yelled at Mummy for being so weak she lost her husband’s interest. That was something Tarvek didn’t understand. The Prince barely had any interest in _any_ of them.

“Why must you persist in defying Father, Mummy? You know what we must do, what Tarvek is to become! He will be of no use to _anyone_ if you keep making him weak with these foolish, useless sentiments! There is only power, and those who are ruled by it!”

“There is no strength in their plans, Daughter! They are only being _used_ by that succubus, Lucrezia! She does not care for the Shining Coalition’s future, only what she can steal from its power!” Mummy argued, as Anevka paced in front of her, twelve years old, and still dressed in her fencing uniform. “Tarvek is stronger than you two realise, and he will be a good King, but he cannot be if there is no love in his heart.”

“Love,” Anevka spat, “is a weakness!” With that she suddenly pulled out her sabre and in the same smooth motion ran their mother through, her face twisted with rage and contempt. Her sabre buried into Mummy’s belly, even as Tarvek threw open the door, screaming for Anevka to stop.

“Anev...ka...!” Mummy gasped, clutching at the sword. Disbelief, shock... sorrow.

“Tch,” Anevka sneered, jerking out the blade in such a way that she tore open Mummy’s side, making Mummy scream. She glared down at her mother. “He will not be weak any more once you’re _gone_.” She left the room, tripping Violetta as she did so.

Tarvek caught her, but Tarvek was too small. _Too small, too weak, too helpless -_ Even as she fell, Mummy curled around him, him and Violetta, curving her arms around them both. Tarvek dropped the book, the book they read every day, and tried to keep her blood, her insides in her, even as he shouted for Violetta to get the bandages from the medical kit they had all begun to carry as part of their lessons. They didn’t have enough bandages so Tarvek tore off his little coat, wadded it up and pressed it into her side. _Not enough! I don’t have enough...!_

There was so much blood gushing out, even as Tarvek and Violetta tried to push back the _things that were too slippery to hold back in_ . And he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t take the pain away, couldn’t make his mother stop making those horrible noises filled with pain as four little hands tried and failed to _stop the bleeding_ , as Tarvek screamed for Violetta to _run and get help_ , Mummy telling him to stop, to listen, but there was _so much blood and the world was getting muffled_... then her hand reached out and turned his face to hers. Her hand was cold, icy cold, and pale under the blood.

“My son... my Tarvek...” Her eyes widened as she saw his face, saw something in his eyes, his expression, something she _recognised_... and she seemed to grow infinitely sad and full of regret. Trembling, Tarvek pressed his hand against hers, as she rallied her strength one last time. “... my son... remember this, my last lesson to you, my King... Sometimes... the greatest strength... is _not_ to show you are strong.” Blood dripped from her hand and his as the world seemed to spiral into slowness, into grey cold. “I love y...”

Her arms lost their strength.

The world shattered, and all the sound was swallowed by the shrill, deafening silence.

⚙

He buried the book with her.

⚙

Tarvek felt cold. The tears wouldn’t stop, and he was surprised they didn’t freeze, he was so cold. But he’d taken apart the toy clanks, hidden in an old forgotten storage room, the newest hiding place, with Violetta stealing food from the palace kitchens for them to cache there. Tarvek still showed up for lessons, meals, did everything he had to, but he stared and stared and wept endless tears that ran down his pale, small face without ceasing. The Prince beat him for weeping, for showing weakness, but Tarvek made very little sound and continued to weep without a change in expression. It was then the Prince took a closer look at his son, the weakling, and raised his eyebrows. He spoke, more to himself than to the shell of a boy in front of him. “...state of fugue, perhaps. Maybe he’ll _finally_ be useful.”

Then he had Tarvek brought into a lab, and locked him in.

Violetta helped him escape, but he came back there, because if they saw he was there, they wouldn’t look for him anywhere else. 

Tarvek had understood the word, ‘fugue.’ He was in _Spark_ fugue.

He was in Breakthrough.

But it didn’t sound like how they’d read of Breakthroughs at all. All he felt was cold, _cold_ , oh so cold... and the _need_ to become warm again. But Mummy’s last lesson stuck, echoing in his mind, through the numbness and the pain of the beating, even as his fingers slipped and were cut by the small pipes and fittings he was fumbling with. The pipes and gears kept his hands busy, freeing his mind for more important thoughts.

The world was made of crystal to Tarvek. Cold shards of ice. He understood so much _more_ now, but he had to keep it in order, in the little room his mind had built. So he worked, hidden in the storeroom at night, after The Prince peeked in on him, curled up on the floor.

_The greatest strength is not to show that you are strong._

Tarvek flipped the switch on the thing his idle hands had built.

The dusty, cobwebby room grew slowly warmer, the little heater he had attached to the water pipes clunking twice.

In the crystal caverns of his mind, his next plan began to form. Tarvek removed the heater from the pipes, and shoved it into a box of bric-a-brac. Then he crept back through the castle and into the lab. His hands itched to _create_ but Mummy’s voice stopped him. So he created, analysed, studied - all in his mind. _Not yet, my King,_ she whispered. 

_Hide, hide in the closet, until all shadows must come into the light. Hide, hide your strength._

The next day he was carried out of the lab while he slept. He woke up in his own bed, having been sponged clean, dressed in a fresh set of pajamas, and breakfast was brought to his room, along with Violetta. The Prince came after he had eaten, frowning, but Tarvek gazed back with eyes that were like mirrors. The Prince sighed, disappointed once more. He made arrangements for Tarvek’s schedule to be filled with more lessons, every minute of his life pre-arranged from that point on.

Tarvek mastered those lessons, quietly. Whatever had broken in him, the Prince concluded, was not a Spark breakthrough, but had released a shackle on his mind. But it carried, it seemed, a price, for Tarvek ceased to be _good_ at the physical lessons of the way of Smoke. Or so they believed.

He was useless at assassination, but he _could_ still be shaped into a spy. So he was, along with the lessons expected to be drilled into him as a Sturmvoraus princeling. Along with lessons no other Prince had; special lessons with the Prince. Lessons that would have gotten him killed if he’d tried to tell anyone.

So he and Anevka watched as traveling folk were wasped, and a tally was made of those who woke up normal, and who became shamblers that were later turned loose deep in the Wastelands.

As he learned, he noticed that Anevka smiled at him now, and the smile made him feel warm, so he smiled back. Things were different now, now that Mummy was gone. Because Tarvek was never sure if that warmth was love, or the fires of hatred.

⚙

“I expect you to comport yourself as befits your station,” The Prince said.

“Yes, Father.”

“Never forget that most of the students there will be from rival houses, so be on your guard.”

“Yes, Father.”

Then they were meeting the Baron in his floating Castle, and Tarvek had to crane his neck back to meet Klaus Wulfenbach’s eyes. He hugged the midmoth Cousin Tweedle had given him as a gift before he’d been sent off “to the school of rulers” and forgot what to say. There was something oddly familiar about the Baron, but Tarvek knew he had never met the man before. But though the Baron seemed stern, he didn’t seem ...like the Prince did. Eventually he managed a greeting.

Tarvek counted the steps and turns he took from the hangar bay to the school, like he was supposed to, in case he needed to escape, but as he was introduced to the other students, he found himself remembering the profiles he had been drilled in before being offered up as a hostage.

The one person they knew little about was the orphan boy, seven years of age, same as Tarvek... Gilgamesh Holtzfäller. The Baron’s charity case. He was staring at the adults, then looking at Tarvek, then back at the adults again. To Tarvek’s private astonishment, the boy frowned, like he had seen something that was disturbing.

Tarvek was shown to his room, barely bigger than his closet at home, but for some reason something in him relaxed, seeing it. 

It wasn’t until after the Prince had left that Tarvek realised that as long as he was here, he _didn’t_ have to endure his home.

_Pity Violetta couldn’t come._

He had just finished unpacking when there was a knocking on the door. As expected. If he was to stay, he had to earn it, the Prince said.

Time to get to work.

⚙

Tarvek recognised bullying of course. He’d been subtly bullied himself, after Mummy died, because of the days he had wept and he had been unable to stop it. Whispers and sneers were nothing compared to what Holtzfäller endured though, but to Tarvek it was an opportunity. So one evening after Gil had juice ‘accidentally’ poured into his bowl of stew and the boy had run away Tarvek finished serving himself a bowl, then put another one together, in open defiance of the rest. He might have been the newest kid in the group, but he outranked the rest of them, so nothing but whispers followed in his wake.

Tarvek knew that Gil would run into the school’s cleaning supply room, but when he entered there was nobody there. There was a spot that looked like a dark enough area for a boy Gil’s size to hide in but instead, Tarvek found a gap in the wall plating, just enough for him to squeeze through. None of the other kids would be able to follow; Gil was a thin boy, and so was Tarvek.

He followed the cramped path, the top of a beam, really, until he came to a small gap between two rooms that was partly illuminated by light coming from below. And there was Gil, angrily wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Hey,” Tarvek said, holding out the bowl. “You should eat. Madam von Pinn will get angry if you don’t.”

Gil started, then stared at the bowl with suspicion.

“In case you’re wondering, no, I _didn’t_ spit in it.” Tarvek gestured with the bowl and the spoon rattled.

“Thanks... your Highness.” Gil took the bowl, and sniffling, smiled.

“Tarvek,” Tarvek told him as he sat down. “That’s my name. You can use it, if you like. It’s not getting much use otherwise.”

⚙

“I have a great idea, Tarv!” Gilgamesh popped his head into Tarvek’s room, waving a book. Only Gil was ever allowed to call him that _ridiculous_ shortening of his already short name, and _only_ in private. It was too undignified otherwise. 

Tarvek wasn’t sure why he endured it, but endure it he did, and he turned around in his chair, eyebrow raised. “Gil, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re supposed to be doing homework now.”

“I finished mine already!” Gil plopped himself on the edge of Tarvek’s bed, giving the midmoth, Rijin, a careless rubbing of the ears. “Didja want help?”

“Don’t be absurd, _I_ finished half an hour ago,” Tarvek sniffed. “I was just going over the part of the history lessons about the sack of Paris by the Heterodynes again.”

“Bleeeh, c’mon, this is more _interesting.”_

Five minutes later the two boys were squeezing between the walls again, to invade one of the unoccupied grown-up labs.

Tarvek wondered why this feeling he had when he saw Gil’s bright smile was so familiar, as they mixed brightly glowing chemicals and cement together.

Gil molded the resulting putty into a ball and flung it at the far wall. The putty smacked hard into the metal. Gil and Tarvek ran over, and tugged. The cement putty, with a section of it poking out from the wall, had stuck and chemically bonded with the wall.

“It worked, Tarv! It worked!” Gil danced in place with excitement, grinning. “Now we can make handholds that won’t erode on us! Or snap off!”

Tarvek stared, a memory floating up from the depths of his brain: Mummy, grinning in much the same way, after she had made a solution that made giant rainbow soap bubbles as a children’s science experiment. She had such a _joy_ in discovery, learning and study, even if she _hadn’t_ been a Spark. 

It wasn’t until that moment that Tarvek realised he hadn’t _enjoyed_ learning since. His mind began to hum, his vision gaining a crystal clarity that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The ice around the diamond clear fragments in his mind began to melt.

“I bet we can improve on that,” he replied, grinning in excitement.

⚙

“YOU USELESS, SENTIMENTAL _FOOL!”_

Tarvek took the blow across his face and let himself go limp as the force of it sent him flying into a bookshelf. He let himself fall, collapsing as several vellum scrolls clattered onto his head. _Calm,_ he told himself. _You expected this._ Even if he _hadn’t_ expected the bitter betrayal from someone he’d cared for almost as much as Violetta. It _still_ made no sense! What had he said wrong?! Something to think about later. Right now, he had to be punished for his failure. For being too weak and careless _again._

Even so, he wasn’t prepared for the depth of the Prince’s rage. It wasn’t until later when Tarvek tallied up his injuries that he counted himself lucky that he was only losing milk teeth. It was only the fact that the Prince’s movements had seemed so slow while he was in that crystal clear numb state that Tarvek had been able to prevent fully broken bones. He desperately hoped that it hadn’t been noticed.

Still, Tarvek was pretty sure his left forearm was cracked. That was going to make escaping the West Tower harder. Not impossible, just harder. And he had to remember where the handholds were. A moment’s concentration in the clarity of Spark fugue gave him the pathway down. He just had to hope that he wouldn’t slip and fall.

If the whole ‘dead middle of Sturmhalten winter’ didn’t kill him first.

⚙

Tarvek _did_ fall, but he landed in a snowdrift easily twice a man’s height. It backed into a window, which he was able to jigger open with the arm of his glasses.

He recognised the rooms, but it took him a moment to remember where he was. When he did, he crawled, shaking violently with cold, to the spot where his mother had died, and curled up at the same spot he had been in. For a moment, it seemed as if he could feel her arms around him again, hear her call him her King, say she was so very, very proud of him.

Tarvek heard the world shatter. _Move. Get up. Now is not the time to hide your strength._

Tarvek opened his eyes. The world seemed so crystal clear, even though he could barely see. He was so cold, he felt nothing. He had stopped shivering. And everywhere was that deafening ringing humming silence that numbed everything and yet...

Tarvek rolled to his feet, with a fragment of his usual grace. Darkened halls were bright, bright bright with odd blue edged flames lining them. Silent, like a ghost, he dragged himself to the room where Mummy’s spinet was moved so he could continue his lessons. The greater parlour always had a fire going in the fireplace... but when he reached it the warmth was concentrated only by the fire itself. The very stone of Sturmhalten leeched warmth and love from the air.

“That... wasn’t what you told me, Mummy,” Tarvek whispered. “How could I ever forget? _The greatest strength is not to show that you are strong.”_ The fire crackled in front of him. Then the logs split.

_TakTak takTaktaktakThk!_

By sheer chance, the wood resettled in the same clattering of knocks that Tarvek’s mother had used to signal the end of the hiding exercise. Tarvek began to move, his idle hands finding work, work that would make him useful, and perhaps... at least a part of him he wouldn’t have to hide so much again.

⚙

Weeks later, Tarvek strolled into the room once more, his left arm in a sling. The fire burned heartily. The room was warm everywhere now, thanks to the new system of pipes that swept out from the fireplace to the rest of the room. He already had plans to improve it, as the initial setup was too crude to keep.

_The greatest strength is not to show that you are strong._

Tarvek faced the flames as he stood next to the spinet his mother used to play for him, the firelight rendering his glasses opaque. Nobody could have credited that he was a full Spark, not at his age. The Prince had crowed with delight, as if Tarvek’s survival had anything to do with _him._ Yet, the Prince finally treated Tarvek like he was worth _something..._ and at the same time, sometimes, Tarvek caught his sire staring at him with an unnerving, avaricious gleam in his eyes.

As Tarvek watched the flames, in the crystal clear silence of his mind, he began to plot once more, his fingertips idly caressing the ivory keys of the spinet. The gameboard of his mind arranged itself and showed him what he could do next.

The one person who had known the truth of his Breakthrough, and used her last breath to protect him one last time... was long gone. The only time Tarvek would ever hear the echo of her voice was in the palace of his own mind, chiming from its crystal walls, the faintest memory of _love_ the only hint he ever had if it was safe for him to descend into fugue. Tarvek had no illusions or romantic notions that a ghost of his mother lived on in him still, a guardian angel telling him when it was safe; that the imagery was simply how his still childish mind interpreted the concept of his fugue state.

He was only eight, after all.

As the years passed, Tarvek felt that slivery scrap of warmth less and less, as he perfected _not_ showing his strength to the world; as he sent Violetta away, betraying her loyalty and sisterly love to keep her safe; as the day came when Martellus sent his first assassin after the cousin he had once wanted to see smile and grow strong; as he returned home one cold autumn evening as the Prince screamed for his favourite child to open her eyes; as Tarvek was forced to watch a senseless parade of young girl Sparks die in the pursuit of the ageing Prince’s obsession. 

The gleam of avarice in those eyes told Tarvek he was running out of time. 

The only piece he had left was _himself_ , a pawn King against the world.

Then one evening, a lost Princess with emerald eyes and reddish gold hair walked on stage, demanding that he kneel and all his carefully constructed gameplay was upset, and he had to learn a whole new game: The Heterodyne Adventure.

_All shadows must come into the light._

**Author's Note:**

> In my headspace, Tarvek’s and Anevka’s mum (who I name Anya in my mind most of the time) is part of the original purpose of the Order, and thus on Grandma Terebithia’s side of the Order of Jove faction war. Originally, so was Aaronev Wilhelm but Lucrezia happened. He and his wife were fond of each other despite the arranged marriage until Lucrezia basically ruins their marriage. Anevka is a huge Daddy’s Girl and sides with her father. Aaronev really is just the sire to Tarvek, but his wife is devoted to raising the children in her care (Tarvek and Violetta, though she tries with Anevka.)
> 
> In this same headspace, Tarvek’s breakthrough project is a mental construction somewhat like, but not exactly like the BBC Sherlock's Mind Palace, because of how Book 2 describes Tarvek’s mental thought processes and imagery.
> 
> Also hinted is Aaronev planning to pull a body-theft on Tarvek, a la Lucrezia.


End file.
